The following is a transcript between Level 4 Researcher Dr. Louise Stefansk and D-8652-22. D-8652-22 is known for wearing SCP-8652 the longest before expiring (13 days, 6 hours). This interview occurred 25 hours before D-8652-22 expired.
Dr. Stefansk: Good afternoon, 22.
022: Hello.
Dr. Stefansk: Who are you seeing today?
022: After a couple of days it gets rather blurry, Doc. I think it's kids this time.
Dr. Stefansk: If you could, can you recall all the different days so far for me?
022: You ask me this every day.
Dr. Stefansk: It's a cognitive test.
022: More like you want to see if I’m still under the mask. Maybe to see how alive someone really needs to be in order to wear the mask. Which means… it is still working.
Dr. Stefansk: I assure you that Statistics would let me know if it wasn’t.
D-8652-022 sighs deeply.
022: Alright, let me start from the beginning. Day 1 was rough, but not the worst. There were adults, but none of them were crying. They had this look on their faces like they were ashamed of something from a long time ago. After that was another easy day. I thought everyone was over-playing this whole mask thing. Car mechanics, I think it was. If I had to guess, they felt guilty about ripping people off.
Dr. Stefansk: Do you feel comfortable talking about day 3?
D-8652-022 stares blankly behind the mask for 24 seconds.
022: Yes, it was bad. That one had been different.
Dr. Stefansk: You’ve never told us what was there.
022: Mhmm.
Dr Stefansk shuffles the papers she is holding.
Dr. Stefansk: If you weren’t aware, you are now the longest individual to ever wear 8652.
022: It's been eleven days already?
Dr. Stefansk: Twelve, actually. I didn’t interview you yesterday.
022: Ah. If the days are easy they blend together I suppose.
Dr. Stefansk: Which makes the difficult ones all the more important.
022: And you don’t know how much longer I’ll last.
Dr Stefansk does not respond.
022: Sure, sure. Can’t put it on record. Sure.
D-8652-022 takes a deep breath and wipes off her D-Class jumpsuit as though it were dusty.
022: I’m holding a steering wheel. Driving down a mainstreet. I check my rearview mirror and someone is tailgating me. I’m mad. I keep checking my mirror, wondering what they want. Then I feel a bump and look forward. A little boy is rolling over my windshield, his arm bent the wrong way. Then I’m a bus driver. I forget to put out the stop flashing lights as I let a gradeschooler off. A red car passes my left side as the kid crosses the street. It hits him. Then I’m a taxi driver. I don’t check my blind spot as I make a right turn. I hear the bicyclist’s bones snap under my wheels. Over and over and over, all day. Countless times I’m negligent, and someone gets hurt.
Dr. Stefansk: You keep referring to the vision from the first person. Are you saying you did these things?
022: Right… the visions. Not me. Not me…
Dr. Stefansk: Can you please elaborate, 22? This is important.
022: Yeah it was me. At least I remember it as me. I don’t know. Like a dream you remember from years ago, so it might as well be real. I might as well have done it. I’m dead soon anyways. Attach the sin to me on my way out.
Dr. Stefansk: Easy 22. You’ve passed the worst days. Maybe this thing is survivable.
022: I didn’t wear it to come out the other side, doc. An entire day of flashbacks of killing people… I mean I can’t even remember if I had done those things.
Dr. Stefansk: Was that the only day where you were the bad actor?
022: Yes. I feel guilty about it, too. Even right now, I’m still thinking about it behind this mask. I can see a sea of people with ‘thief’ carved in their foreheads and I don’t care about a single one. I haven’t heard their ribs shatter, see them open up on my hood.
Dr. Stefansk: Is the feeling of guilt still there?
022: Oh for sure. It is like if you have a stomach ache but stub your toe, you forget about your stomach for a little bit. Except I keep slamming my foot in the door.
Dr. Stefansk: When was the last time you removed the mask?
022: You know, as a kid I had imagined something like this existed. I was an anxious little thing. Afraid of almost everything. I knew even then that it was irrational and likely just my brain being wired the wrong way. Regardless, I wondered how it would feel to be even 1 percent better. Less afraid. Then I wondered what it would be like to carry someone else’s anxiety. Could I carry it better than them? Would it be a net positive if I carried more?
Dr. Stefansk: Violent crime is down worldwide. Every minute you spend in here is saving lives.
022: Are there people in line behind me?
Dr. Stefansk: I can’t tell you.
022: You can’t tell me because is might affect how long I last.
Dr. Stefansk: Yes.
022: …Alright doc, it’s getting harder to breathe. Maybe I should focus on this.
Dr. Stefansk: Thank you, 022.
022: Mmm.
Addendum SCP-8652-42: Further research into D-8652-22’s past pre-amnestic history showed that D-8652-22 had been involved in a drunk driving incident, killing four. She had not faced charges and had come to D-Class service through other criminal activity. Further speculation on whether D-8652-22’s encounter correlates to whether a test subject had experienced the correlating perceived sin are undergoing.
Following the death of noblewoman Madam Valentina Myrebourne, a Foundation mole within the GOC discovered that SCP-8652 was to be handed off to her grandchild. This person was suspected to be a GOC operative, and so the agent intercepted the package and the attached note. A copy is provided below.
I met William by accident. It was at a ball– I was a plus-one of a girlfriend. Really quite nice place, it was. The chandeliers over the ballroom were larger than any carriages. Food brought out by servants were kept warm by these quaint metal plates. The beverages themselves were also much better than the standard. A little too good, perhaps, as I quickly found myself over-indulging.
I stumbled my way down carpeted and wooden corridors in the large estate in search of a washroom. I was so intoxicated that I hardly noticed the beautifully painted portraits of the family lineage. The entirety of the Vaenic family was rather attractive, I must admit. The men with sharp, rugged blonde features and the women delicate as stained glass. All of their perfect faces staring at me, a lesser noblewoman, as I sought refuge to empty my stomach within their palace.
I must have passed a dozen lavatories in my fugue. Hallways became less and less illuminated and the paintings and busts cast in shadow. I settled for a closet and an empty crate once I could not repress the urge any longer. Clarity hit me almost immediately after I saw my smeared cosmetics on the back of my hand. What a fool I had made of myself!
And at the worst possible time, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. I turned with a start, and there before me was the image of Vaenic beauty itself. Tall, broad shouldered, and blonde hair well-manicured. His dress was plain and blue, clearly not an attendee of the ball but a patron of the family no less. Most interesting was his face; he wore a white mask over the majority of it. One green eye and perfectly trimmed eyebrow was left uncovered for me to guess at the handsomeness underneath.
“Have you need of help?” he spoke, voice as rocky as a shoreline.
I imagined that my appearance matched his own in oddity. “I apologize–” I stammered, “I could not find a suitable place…”
He nodded. “I lose myself, too, sometimes.”
I knew not if he meant within the building or otherwise. He stood me up, assured that I would be alright, and pointed back the way from which I came. He did not follow me as I returned to the bash.
Stone faced, I lay in bed that night wondering of my encounter. I had not even his name! Nor his face! Yet I could not get him out of my mind. A masked noble, deep in the heart of his land, wholly unaccounted for. My girlfriends had no knowledge of another Vaelic, especially one such as him. They all called me delirious.
The next day I wore my favorite rose colored dress and strolled my way back to that place. At the time, I deluded myself into thinking my trip was to apologize for the previous night’s behavior. I know now that I simply wished to see him again. The guards at the gate would not allow me onto their grass and so I was forced to peer through the hedges. Such a large place, all the more enticing knowing that he was somewhere in those walls.
With shame I must admit that I wanted entry, to the point of perversity. I anxiously awaited nightfall, wherein I knew those portrayed halls awaited me. I wore black, tight fitting clothing. Being an oldest daughter, I had not been coddled. Equestrianism and of all things rowing had kept me in shape. Therefore, scaling the masonry behind Vaelic Estate was easy enough. Being a minor house also meant minimal security. An open first floor window lent me into a water closet (oh, the irony!) and I crept in like a yegg. Electrical lighting was quite the commodity, but I was lucky enough that the Vaelics were lucky enough to have it. I saw now the paintings that had chastised me the night before. Green eyes pierced through orange sodium-light. They saw me, and knew I was up to no good.
I passed my closet, moving farther than I had. The path split, and I followed the one with lit candles. Flickering light set the mood as I came to a staircase. The metal steps contrasted the wooden interior. It was cold beneath my moccasins. I was grateful it did not creak like the floorboards had, for I found a door at the summit. It was cracked open by a hair, with steady glow from within. I heard quiet shuffling and knew it was occupied.
I opened it enough to get my nose through. There I saw him, back to me, wearing the same blue outfit. Blonde hair draped over his shoulders, and underneath it I could see the leather strap of his mask. He was painting on a canvas much larger than himself. At first, at a distance, I thought it was simply black. As I watched his hand move in small strokes the realization of what I was watching hit me.
It was people, perhaps tens of thousands of them. Each allotted a knuckle length or so. They raised their hands in wailing prayer; each face was both featureless but in anguish. I knew not that my feet were bringing me into the room. I had not noticed until I stepped upon a squeaky floorboard and he spun around quickly.
He held the brush in one hand, easel in the other, and his one free eye was streaming with tears. “Quite the snoop, aren’t you?” he said. I noted that his voice did not have the similar choking of one who had just been weeping.
I wrung my hands nervously. Like a schoolgirl, I plainly admitted my purpose. “I wanted to see you.”
He glanced back at his painting and sighed. He set down his instruments and rose to his feet. I felt so small in that moment, though he could be only slightly taller than I. He closed the distance between us, standing arms-length away.
“There is not much to see,” he said. I knew he meant the mask. “Do what the others do; mourn me through the acrylics that adorn the hallways.”
One of those judgemental faces was his? I contemplated. “You cannot mourn a man that breathes– or even paints,” I said.
His eyes still streamed when he blinked. He did not bother to wipe them. “Perhaps. Today is a bad day,” he started. “I fear I cannot handle another. I must say, even so, that you are the only person still willing to see me in such a state.”
“I wish to know you,” I said.
“A bit late. I’m sure you are splendid, but you are much too late. I can only take so much of others leaving on top of it,” he cryptically said.
“Then I will not leave!” I declared. Oh the foolhardiness of youth!
I saw his eye crease in what must have been a smile. “Then please, take a seat. I apologize that the bench which holds my paints is the only other I have.”
I carefully placed the tools aside and watched him as he retuned to work. His movements were gentle and intentional. He paused occasionally, as though listening to an outside voice that was not mine. Yet still, he was a good conversationalist. We talked about the arts and the weather and about horses. He could tell when I attempted to move the discussion towards him, but often skirted it or outright refused.
I must have trespassed around midnight, meaning it was well into the night when our talk slowed. I do not remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking with a start. My hair was in my face and my back sore, but my eyes darted to him. He remained in his seat, painting, even as the sun worked its ways through the window.
“But you have been awake?” I asked.
“As I have been for a week or so,” he said. His painting was marginally more completed than I had remembered, but as every individual on the canvas was small and detailed, it would take another straight week of work. I assumed he painted as a distraction, not a necessity.
I sat up, contemplated. “You are unwell,” is all I managed.
This made him pause. He stood. I could see his eye, and it was red but not mewling. “Today is a good day. I’d like to show you something.”
The room we were in contained a closet. Inside, he grabbed a box off of the floor and handed it to me. It was sleek with varnish and contained a velvety interior. There was a half-circular impression, assumingly where his mask had lay. “When I pass, please return my burden here. Seal it, and do not allow another to touch it.”
“Why not remove it now?” I asked.
“No!” he shouted. Startled, I felt tears in my eyes. He sighed, apologized. “I am committed, and I am ugly. My veil allows me a great privilege. I help a great many people. I will pay for it dearly, soon. But it is worth it.”
I felt it within me, then, a remembrance of similar men. Men who sailed overseas, met pirates or other ne’er-do-wells, and wore similar disguises. A pants leg over a wooden stub or an eyepatch over an eyeless pit. Surely, he must be similarly disfigured in order to wear the mask so religiously. “Hiding yourself will not cure anything,” I said.
“I am not hiding, for I have been shunned.” He returned to his seat with a harumph. “I take this alienation willingly. I hope nobody else discovers what I have. You, a stranger, will see to that. Please, promise to me you will store the mask.”
He did not turn his head to see me nod. I looked down at the box and the red silk inside. I ran my thumb over it. “Yes,” I burdened myself, “I’ll keep it.”
I saw his jaw muscles move slightly under the mask. I still wonder what face he was making then.
Time passed, and we made conversation about other things as we did so. To be honest, it was likely that I mostly talked about myself. How silly of me, in retrospect, to bother him with the ramblings of a young woman. He was quite attentive anyhow; asking additional questions or making appropriate comments. I quite enjoyed it.
The feeling of thirst came first, then hunger. I had not eaten since the previous afternoon, and felt the familiar pangs in my gut. In hopes of not being rude, I waited until the last possible moment to say anything. “Have you any refreshments?”
“They would be downstairs. The kitchen is to the left.” He said rather plainly.
I remember thinking it rude how he did not stand from his art in order to lead me to water. I stood, turned toward the door.
“You’re leaving?” He asked. He said this loudly, almost out of betrayal.
I nervously laughed. “I am getting quite thirsty…”
He stood quickly, ferociously. “You promised! ‘I will not leave’ you said!”
The look of shock on my face must have been noticeable. He did not care. Now I must mention, in my old age, I know that this was the point in where I should have left. I should have crept my way back out of the Vaelic Estate and forgotten all about him.
But I did not.
I apologized to him and sat back down. My thoughts quickly became of food and drink. I remember the bench becoming less and less comfortable. I made less talk, and he did not start any himself. I cringe now, remembering those first few hours; my window to escape.
The next urge, of course, was the use of a lavatory. I felt my bladder fill and compound with my thirst and hunger. I noticed then that he had not gotten up from his painting for any of those things. I waited a while, hoping that he would break first. Surely, I assumed, he must also do all the normal things a human must.
My needs turned to anger, and in the monotony of brush strokes I let it boil over. “Need you not drink? Do you not relieve yourself?”
He did not even turn from drawing a child with detail. “A dying man has no needs.”
I stood in frustration, put my uncalloused hands on the doorknob. I paused as he spoke, “I put my trust in you. Heard you promise not once, but twice. You stated you would not leave, that you would keep my burden.”
The foolishness I feel now, knowing what I felt then. I felt guilty. Perhaps that is what he wanted. I released the door, but was not satiated. I still needed to use the washroom. I did my business in the closet. I removed a mop from a bucket and that is all I will say about the matter.
How peculiar the state I was in, then. Dehydrated, paces away from a disfigured man and my own waste. I felt my tongue dry as the sun set on the first day. It would not be only a single day, however. Night fell and I slept as he worked. Sun rose and I watched him in a trance. It became my new life, this little room. Occasionally he would refill his easel, and I would see whether he wept or not, but otherwise there was no stimulus within my confinement.
Dehydration can take a life in only a few days. I knew this, and slowly found ease in it. If I were to die up here, at least he would surely come with me.
I understand the ridiculousness of it all. Easily preventable suffering of a little girl, and for what, a masked man? I ask you then, to see it as I did. An immortal artist, incredibly intriguing and amiable, had taken an interest in me. Not romantic, but empathetic. We shared the suffering together. Starvation is better handled if you are not the only one starving.
I know not how many days I lie up there. I figure at least a single day I did not move a muscle, but my perception of time was skewed. The fateful day came, however, when I outlasted him.
His brushstrokes slowed as sunrise came. He often paused and jolted as the first light crept through the eastern window, but today was different. He collapsed to the ground, running his fingers through his hair. He wept openly, waking me from my sleep. I stood, lightheaded, watching him thrash upon the ground. I did not want to get near him, but I pitied him so.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes, right here,” I said, stepping toward him.
He held out a hand, still covering his eye with the other. It was the first tender thing he had done towards me. I took it, and felt the frailty in it. He was nothing but bones, same as I.
He passed without another word. Simply went limp. I knew not whether to lay his hand down gently or drop it. I was afraid to touch him anymore at all. My eyes squeezed, but there was no more water to spare. I mustered the courage to lay him on his back, close his salt-crusted eye. Slowly, carefully, I reached behind his beautiful blonde hair. There my fingers found the clasp to the mask. I had stared at the silver metal for countless hours as he worked, and now I held it in my hands. I steeled myself, preparing to see the flesh beneath the mask. How bad was it, that he died for it? Were his lips peeled back? His nose nothing but a hole?
I lifted the porcelain, and saw the features that had been hidden. Slender features of a Vaelic rose from pale skin. The nose was perfect, chiseled. Stubble grew into a fine beard. The other eye lay open, staring at the ceiling in horror. Altogether, besides an overall thinness from starvation, he was handsome. Not a mark upon his face.
I turned the mask over in my hands. I looked at the surface that had been in contact with his face. It was clean and without markings. I heard curiosity calling out from beyond. I pushed the veil against my face and felt its cold against my nose.
It were as though the hells had opened up in my mind. Millions of voices called out to me, begging me for forgiveness. If I focused I could see each one individually. Holding an axe or sword they stood. I could see their victims beneath them, decapitated. Burning in Hell they told me they knew not the punishment for what they did.
Terrified, I threw the mask down. The only reason it did not shatter is because it hit the dead man on the chest before bouncing to the floor. “Sorry,” I whispered as the room came back into focus. I noticed that while I wore the mask, I did not feel the thirst or starvation or smell the closet. The urges came back again with such strength that I picked up the mask, almost held it to my face.
Perhaps my promise to the dead man saved my life. “I promise to keep,” I whispered to myself. I placed the thing into its box, closed and latched it. I did not look back at his corpse before I opened the door and stumbled down the stairs.
I was once again intoxicated down the estate halls. The portraits laughed at me, taunting me. They told me I had killed him. Killed their son, their cousin, their brother. I should have torn the mask off of his beautiful face. But how could I have known? I staggered down carpet and wooden hallways. I scanned every face, no matter how bad the things they said to me were. I needed to see him, alive and healthy.
It took a moment to recognize the man I had spent these days with. His eyes were full, happy. He smiled in his painting. His jaw was full and with no hair upon it. The name ‘William Vaelic’ was inscribed below it.
I give up keeper of William’s Guilt Machine willingly. I have heard its whispers for too long. I believe my time with him saved my life, but it is time for another to be saved. Please, continue to carry the torch. I miss him.
